


Warm the Winter's Night

by ScribeofArda



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn gets a little drunk, Gen, Lots of bonfires, Pre-LotR, Rohan, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many years before the events of the War of the Ring, Aragorn finds himself in Rohan on the winter solstice, and is caught up in the celebrations for the longest night of the year.<br/>(oneshot, set pre-lotr by about forty years)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm the Winter's Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a winter solstice story, so in that regards, I'm a little late, but it also doubles as a new year fic. This is set in Rohan, in Edoras, and occurs about forty years or so before the events of LoTR. Purely Aragorn for this. For those who don't know, during Aragorn's travels around Middle Earth he goes and becomes a captain under the name Thorongil for the then King of Rohan- Theoden's father, Thengel. At this point, Theoden is about ten, and Aragorn is about forty (ish). Also, in this fic the people describe themselves as the Eorlingas, because apparently Rohirrim is a name used by other men, not actually themselves.
> 
> The idea of riding horses through flames comes from a Spanish festival that's been going for over 500 years- Las Luminarias. It represents purifying the horses and riders (they aren't hurt, it's like passing your hand quickly through a flame) and it seems like the ultimate test of trust between horse and rider, so I put it in here. It's not specifically a winter solstice tradition, or a celebration of Rohan, but it sounds cool, and they almost definitely celebrated the winter solstice- the Rohirrim are based off Old English/Norse people, and they had huge winter solstice celebrations.

Though the wind was blowing hard outside, within the stables it was warm, and quiet. The sounds of the wind and the gusts of snow outside were muffled by the soft sounds of horses at night and the thick walls around them. He paused, leaning on the fork he had been using to toss some more hay into the stalls for the chargers around him, not quite sure what he was listening for.

The wind died away a little, and he could tell that the snow was falling more heavily on this night. On the edge of his hearing were the sounds of people gathered together, down on the edge of the plains, and the crackling of logs consumed by orange flames against the dark sky.

He could smell the burning wood on the draughts finding their way into the stables, the scent of charred wood and roasting meat above the familiar smell of hay and horses around him. The lamp lit nearby guttered briefly in one such draught and the shadows flickered around him for a moment, as if trying to lead him to dance.

The doors were flung open and he turned, hand momentarily gripping the fork tighter. A blast of cold air swirled in around the small figure standing in the doorway.

"Thorongil!" the boy cried. "Father says you must come and also join the celebrations. In his words…" The child screwed his face up, trying to remember what he had been told. He saw when the boy remembered, because he suddenly laughed, and then was grinning at the man in front of him.

"He said that not even Thorongil can be sullen tonight!" he exclaimed. "He said more things, but I don't really remember them." The boy ran forwards and grabbed at his arm. "Come! The fires are lit and there is good food. We are getting the horses soon. Mother is in Gondor, so I am going to ask Father if I can ride this year. But you have to come and watch, at least. Father commands it!"

He laughed roughly, a low rumble in his chest. "If Lord Thengel commands it, then I surely must obey," he said. "I will come, Theoden." He set aside the fork and followed Theoden out across the dark, snow-dusted paths of Edoras, heading down and out onto the plains surrounding the city. Theoden tugged on his arm occasionally, his eyes not leaving the great fires that were leaping up towards the night sky and the stars above. He kept the boy from tripping in his haste several times before they reached the celebrations.

He approached the head table first, and bowed. "My Lord Thengel," he said in greetings.

Thengel stood, greeting him warmly. "Thorongil," he replied, reaching out and clasping his arm. "It seems even you cannot resist my son's charms."

He bowed his head with a wry smile. "It appears not, my Lord," he said, taking a seat that Thengel offered him. Several of the other men there reached over to clap him on the shoulder, one pressing a tankard of ale into his hand. Someone placed a board of meat in front of him, cut from the roasts off to one side, slowly turning over the fire. He started to eat.

For once, he found himself relaxing. He couldn't tell if it was the roaring fires, the stars far above his head, or if he was just tired of being so guarded, but he allowed himself to be pulled into talk around the tables, tales and stories that were tradition at this time of year.

One of Thengel's other captains came and sat down heavily next to him. "The longest night," he said with a grin. "Doesn't seem so bad."

"Not too bad at all," he replied, raising his tankard to the man, a friend of his, if any here could be seen as friends. After all, they didn't even know his real name, or his purpose here. He would leave in a year or two, and then they would most likely never see him again.

He shook his head, clearing it of the thoughts. Tonight was not the night for such things. The Eorlingas believed that tonight should be spent in celebration, forgetting whatever harshness they had been through or was yet to come. The talk flowed easily around him, and he spent some time drinking and talking with the other captain, trading tales that he normally would have never told.

"My brothers," he said at one point, sitting amongst friends, captains and soldiers of the Eorlingas he had come to know. "When I was young, they would wake me and drag me outside upon the first snowfall, just to throw me in it." He laughed, and shook his head. "When I grew, I had my revenge upon them."

There were laughs around the group. "Thorongil, we have gotten more out of you tonight than we have in a year!" exclaimed one of the men. "Who knew you just needed ale and a bonfire to loosen your lips."

"Do not tell the enemy!" cried another. "Such a weakness should not be easily known."

"They would be more interested in how easily you say anything once you've had two tankards than any of my old stories," he replied with a laugh. "None of us have forgotten the story with the stallion and-"

"Enough!" the man cried. "No more, or you will ruin my reputation for good."

"What reputation?" asked someone else, and the men burst out laughing. He laughed along with them, letting his guard slide further for the first time in a while. He was amongst friends here. There was no danger, though he did have a hard time believing it.

They drank some more, waiting for the fires to die down. Some of the men began to sing nearby and then they all picked up the song. It was one of their traditional ones for this night, a song of fire and hearth and homes standing against the cold nights of winter. He stayed silent for the most part, watching them sing. He did not know the words well enough, nor have a good enough grasp of their tongue yet to sing in it.

Though it was cold, the many fires around them were more than enough to make him hot, and he shed his coat, leaving it over his seat. By the morning it probably wasn't going to be there, but it would turn up eventually and he couldn't be bothered to get up and put it in a safer place.

He didn't know what song they were singing now, but someone had pulled out harps and other instruments and the men were calling out the words. They were becoming more and more out of tune as the ale and wine flowed amongst them. Thorongil found himself singing along to one of the songs that he knew, along with the other captains he had been drinking with, and a smile came across his face without him really realising it.

Shouts rose up from one side of the gathering and then the horses were led out. They were prancing as the riders took them through the crowds and around the fires, a few rearing up in excitement. Their manes were intricately braided, their tails bunched up to avoid the fire that was to come. The riders held out their hands to the cheers, their helms glittering as if the flames had sprung from the fires to within the metal itself.

One of the horses reared, nostrils flaring as it looked at the fires in front. The rider laughed and merely pushed the horse forwards, turning him until his front hooves fell back down once more. The horses milled together, the riders talking amongst themselves in loud voices as they waited.

Other men dampened down some of the fires until they were smaller, kicking away burnt logs from the edges. Some brought forwards large buckets of water. A few of these were left around the fires, but the men took many of them and began to douse the horses.

Someone grabbed his arm. "Come on, Thorongil, we need some more men!" He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet with a rough laugh and grabbed one of the smaller buckets someone pressed into his arms. The horses were prancing still as the water was poured over their backs and necks, down their faces. Most of them had done this many times before, and were excited rather than nervous. The riders would not ask this of their horses unless they knew they could.

He tipped one of the buckets over a mare's back, laughing as she snorted and spun around. He caught her bridle easily with one hand and rubbed her face, marvelling at the steadfast courage with which she stood so close to the flames.

Her rider laughed. "Thorongil, do you want to ride?" he asked, stilling the mare beneath him with a touch of his heels. "Come, get yourself a horse!"

He shook his head. "Not tonight," he replied with a smile. "Maybe next winter."

"Suit yourself," the rider said. "We're starting soon. Make sure you're watching!" He wheeled his mare around and turned her back towards the group.

"Really, Thorongil?" asked another man, one of those captains he had been drinking with earlier. "This is everything, the abs-abso-"

"Absolute," he supplied, and the man nodded vigorously, slinging one arm over his shoulders and waving at the horses in front of them.

"This is the most you can ask of your horse, the absolute show of trust and faith," he said. "Do this and you are one of the Eorlingas, Thorongil. You and your horse can do anything, go anywhere!"

He laughed roughly. "You've had too much to drink," he said, clasping his arm to stop the man from swaying and falling over. "Don't tell me you are riding like this."

The captain laughed. "No, I did it last year," he said, his words slurring only a little. It was impressive, given how much he knew he had drunk already. "Got to let others do it as well. Besides, I already trust my horse." He waved his hand and snagged two tankards of ale from some page passing nearby. "Here. You don't drink often enough."

He shrugged, and then took the tankard from the captain. "Why not?" he asked, swallowing a mouthful of the ale. It was the good stuff, the stuff they kept for celebrations such as these. He imagined Thengel had kept some of this away for quite a while, for this occasion or something similar. The good ale wouldn't last for much longer, he knew by experience, but he would drink it whilst it was there.

The horses were growing impatient, and then the crowds parted for one horse. A stallion stood opposite the fires, black coat orange in the flames and glistening with water. The rider sat tall with gilded helm, the horse standing easy underneath him, and he recognised one of the _Mearas_ , the line of the Lords of horses that the Eorlingas had bred and kept safe for hundreds of years. A shout went up from the other riders who rallied behind him.

"I didn't know Thengel would join," he said in amazement as the stallion reared and the men began to sing, a slow chant that began to roll through the crowd, an old song of the Eorlingas that had been handed down since the beginnings of Edoras, if not before. The man, still with one arm around his shoulders, nodded.

"Aye, he'll lead it every winter solstice," the man said. He started singing again and the sound began to build, echoing through the people gathering around until the plains were alive with sound and orange flames flickering against the darkness of the night sky.

Thengel raised one hand, and then his stallion bunched his muscles beneath him and sprung forwards towards the fires burning bright. The sound swelled up around him like a wave and his stallion ran on the crest, hooves cutting into the cold ground beneath him. The snow fell in specks around them but the fires reached up and held it back, cutting through the darkness and lighting the horse and rider as they charged.

He watched, astounded, as the horse neither balked nor swerved but raced towards the fires as Thengel asked. His stallion neared the bright flames, coming closer and closer to the fire, and then bunched his muscles and leapt.

Cheers erupted from the riders and everyone as Thengel and his horse passed through the fire, the flames rolling around them. For a brief moment the light glanced off the flank of the horse, off Thengel's gilded helm and armour, and they seemed to be consumed, fire themselves. The next moment, they came through and the horse's hooves thudded into the ground on the other side. Steam poured off his flanks as Thengel pulled him up, and he pranced, snorting and rearing up in front of the fire now behind them.

Thengel raised his hand high in the air, calling out something that he couldn't quite hear. "What did he say?" he asked the man next to him, shouting to be heard over the cries of the others around them.

"He says it every year on the solstice," the man replied, his voice warm with ale and everything else around them. "As did the King before. It's an old saying of ours, asking on the longest night of the year for luck and good fortunes, for the year to come."

"Not protection or courage?" he asked, and the man laughed, throwing his head back.

"We are the Eorlingas!" he exclaimed. "We can protect ourselves. We have all the courage that we need. But a little luck never goes amiss, as I'm sure you know, Thorongil."

"Aye, I know," he said with a grin, taking another mouthful of ale. Thengel finished talking and his horse pranced once more as the cheers came from the crowds. Someone started to sing once more and then a young stallion, prancing nervously, came forwards towards the fires. The rider laughed and then pushed him forwards, sending him at a gallop towards the flames. There was a moment where it looked as if the horse would refuse, at the last minute, but then found his courage, or the rider's courage, and leapt, scrambling over the flames.

The rider laughed again and pulled the horse up with a shout of joy, rubbing one hand down his stallion's neck. Another rider followed him, on their mare, and though she stumbled upon landing her rider pulled her head up and she rode clear, to yet more shouts and cheers.

He laughed with the rest of the men, standing around the fires and cheering for the horses, for the faith and trust between the animals and their riders. Some didn't make it, their horses not quite finding the courage, but it was no matter. They could try again next year.

It was past midnight when all of the horses had jumped, or had tried, and the celebrations turned to drinking and eating. Some men had taken up instruments once more and were beginning to sing, their deep voices carrying over the fires and under the night sky. Thengel was seated back at the high table, had cast aside his helm and armour for a thick fur cloak, and was trying to balance a sleeping Theoden whilst speaking with one of his captains sitting next to him.

He wandered away from the mass of people, off to the edge of the celebrations. The light from the fires could only reach so far, and beyond a point it was merely darkness across the plains, the ink that had settled across Rohan here, on the longest night of the year.

He had had rather a lot of ale, after all, and some wine as well, so if he couldn't quite remember how he ended up sitting on the snowy ground, leant back against a log that had been a seat earlier in the night, then it didn't really matter. Somehow he'd found his coat again, and he wrapped it more securely around his shoulders.

There was some warmth from the fires, a little ways away, but it was still cold. He wasn't shivering, though, the ale keeping him warm enough. He tilted his head back, let it fall against the log behind him, and watched the stars. The names sprang unbidden to his mind, the constellations the Elves had named and the ones he had learnt from others over his long travels.

The celebrations were slowly dying down behind him, people either falling asleep or heading back to their homes to pass out there. He knew that many people, possibly himself included, would sleep out here close enough to the fires for their warmth.

The longest night of the year. There was no difference to this night than any others, not noticeably. The stars remained the same, the Sun still set beforehand and rose come dawn. But at the same time he had never been in a place where they celebrated the night with such strength, had never seen them fend off the darkness with such vigour.

Part of him, the part that had seen a lot of things with Gandalf and the Dunedain, wondered whether there was much point to such celebrations. After all, the lights of the fires could not reach too far into the darkness out in front of him. It was not banished. And yet he found a large part of him, perhaps more relaxed than usual by drink and good food and songs, thinking that it didn't matter how far the fires could reach. The people behind him, for once, were not thinking of what darkness might be to come. He was not thinking of it, which was even rarer.

He laughed softly to himself, head tilted back to watch the sky above him. Perhaps for some, the stars could be bright enough. But he could not deny that the warmth and the orange light of the fires now behind him were reassuring, and that there was something within such a celebration, something that gave hope.

Words came unsought for to his lips, words for half forgotten songs that he had learnt as a child, and he murmured them softly to the stars. Behind him the fires were crackling as they died down, a log falling in a shower of sparks that rose up on twisting smoke into the night sky.

In the morning Aragorn woke up in front of one of the fires, now little more than ash, with a light dusting of snow over his coat and a pounding headache. One of the men grabbed his hand and pulled him up. As they stumbled inside Aragorn glanced back and saw the hoofprints cut into the soil, the ash and charred wood, some of it still burning, and he found himself smiling at the sight.

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, and my absolute best wishes for 2016.


End file.
